


Rubber Ducky I'm Awfully Fond Of

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Nudity, Trans Dick Simmons, discussion of daddy kink, discussion of roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif and Donut in the showers, late for breakfast, discussing boyfriends and kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubber Ducky I'm Awfully Fond Of

_“Oh, the sun’ll come out, tomorrow. So ya gotta hang on, ‘til tomorrow. Come what may!”_

Dexter Grif shook his head, staring straight forward at beige tile.

“Come on, Grif! Sing with me!” 

“No.”

_“Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, Tomorrow! You’re always a day a-way!”_

Lather and bubbles pool at his bare feet, rainbows swirling in the light, moving lethargically towards the drain. Rinsing shampoo from his hair, Grif is surrounded in the echoing effect communal showers have on Donut’s singing. He’s been showering next to this guy for 13 years, and in that time he’s learned both a respectable collection of Broadway show tunes, and witnessed emotionally riveting re-enactments of many scenes.

“It’s too early for this, Donut,” Simmons beseeches from Grif’s other side, but- _‘Tomorrow! Tomorrow!’_ \- to no avail. Turning off his shower head, Richard Simmons makes a startled _oooh!_ noise, crossing his arms across his breasts. Shivering, he dashes for his towel and dries quick as he can.

“We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up,” he warns, wrestling underwear over too-damp legs. “And there’ll be no breakfast left.”

“Oh whatever. I still gotta shave anyway.” Despite this reasoning, Grif lathers up soap unhurriedly. “You go ahead. Save me a plate.”

“Me too!” Donut chirps.

“Ugh, fine.” The zipper on those shapeless army pants was loud. Grif helps himself to watching Simmons get ready- his bare torso part robotic, part pale and freckled, down to those damn hip bones Grif is such a sucker for. Wet, orange hair, glasses not on yet; dog tags jingling as he bustled about. When he wasn’t bitching, Dick sure could be easy on the eyes.

Oh who was he kidding- Simmons was usually bitching but he was always easy on the eyes.

After he had bid them an exasperated farewell and rushed to clock in, Donut clicked his tongue.

“What?” Grif raises an eyebrow, turning the knob to cut off his shower. The hot water on his skin is replaced by what is surely the icy hands of death, and he hisses as he makes for his towel, tile sucking warmth from his feet.

“You’ve got it bad.”

“What? For Simmons?”

Donut turns off his water, walking to a nearby bench piled with beauty products and fluffy bathsheets. “Yeah,” he smiles, squeezing the water out of his hair. With the showers stopped, the reverberation of their voices off the tile is more apparent.

“Uh, we’ve been a thing for a while, Donut.” 

Both drying off, Dex watches his companion roll his eyes. The air is humid and it feels too sticky.

“Grif, people hook up for lots of reasons.” The echoing makes him sound insightful. “But the way you look at him sometimes? And the way he looks at you?” Donut shakes his head, running the bath sheet across his shoulders. “You guys are what most of us spend our whole lives looking for.”

The man smiles at that. Wresting on clothes, he asks, “What about you and Doc?”

“What, me?” Donut asks incredulously, pulling a T-shirt over his head. “I wasn’t talking about me, hello. Doc’s a freaking catch.”

Grif huffs a laugh, rummaging through his pack. Its contents clink and clunk together, the bag rustling against the bench.

\- - - - -

Standing in the wide bathroom mirror, Dexter Grif shaves with a standard-issue razor. It was like the cheap plastic kind back on earth you bought by the dozen; no turbo action, pre-lubricated, cut-free bullshit. The thing took a steady hand, but when you added enough shaving cream to look like Santa, it got the job done just fine. And Grif was comfortable in its familiarity.

Beside him, leaning over the second sink, Donut hums a little tune to himself as his own Passion Pomegranate buzzes low and soft; the loudest thing in the room. It had four- count them, four- 180 degree rotating heads, with free-trade certified bars of bee honey lotion surrounding them and a cooling system for your skin. Donut offered to let him try it once, but his sense of manhood insisted he couldn’t. Not only that, but he had scoffed at the feminine thing. He regretted that decision then and he does to this day.

“I never know when to expect your company shaving in the mornings,” Donut comments lightly. “Simmons, sure. But you, only around the time you start looking like a mountain man.”

Grif smirks, scraping the blade along his jaw. He explains that, like the bedroom mess, his dastardly handsome scruff grows until Simmons can’t stand it anymore.

They meet in the middle, he assures Donut.

“For example, I convince Simmons to just forget shaving sometimes. Y’know, go for more of a rugged look.” Grif turns his face, working on the paler, freckled cheek. “Then he succumbs to what he calls his ‘lumberjack face’. Which is bullshit, I say, because stubble is hardly lumberjack worthy. But you know, beggars can’t be choosers. I tell him it looks hot and he should just grow a full-on beard, but then he’s like, ‘No, I won’t become a red-bearded Obi-Wan Kenobi.’”

“That’s a shame,” Donut shakes his head.

“Ugh, I know,” Grif rinses out his razor, and the water’s cold. He grabs a towel for his face.

“I think I’m gonna get Doc to try that,” his companion muses, eyes on the mirror, still rubbing the humming device along his neck. “You’re on to something there with the beard.”

“Doc? He’d look like such a dad!”

“Ha! You’re right,” Donut smiles, all straight teeth and wet pink highlights in his hair. He clicks off the motor. Leaning in conspiratorially, that smile becomes devious. “I could get on board with that.”

Grif mock-gasps, zipping his shower bag with a sharp _bzzzt!_. “Donut! I’m shocked.”

“Oh please!” Donut turns on the faucet, rinsing out his rotary razor. “These walls aren’t **that** thick. You are the least qualified person ever to lecture ME on daddy kink!”

That gets a laugh out of Grif, even as his face flares hot. Well, shit! Whoops. He rubs the back of his neck, and Donut grins at him in the mirror.

"How are things going for you guys?" Dex asks. "Still keeping up with the freaky new age shit I'll bet."

Beaming, Donut turns to face him, "Yeah. It's great!" He leans in closer, voice dropping. "Did I tell you he offered to wear the fireman outfit? Without me asking or anything!"

"No! Congratulations, Donut." He makes his voice all choked up. "I'm proud of you."

"I am too."

Franklin turns the water back on and cups his hands under the faucet, splashing all across his face and neck until not a single sud remains. Grasping blindly for a wash cloth, he makes a pleased noise as Grif hands him his. “Ah! Thank you-” Donut scrubs his face vigorously for a moment, before tossing his hair back with a flourish and meeting Grif’s eye. “Now, if I can get Doc on board- and I totally will, by the way- please tell me you’ll give him some pointers or something-”

“Whoa, what?”

Donut begins to pack up his own shower bag- organic toothpaste, berry shampoo, polka dot shower cap. “He would be so at a loss. And so _embarassed_. He’s delicate, Grif. He’s a delicate man. Half the stuff I suggest scares the shit out of him.” 

The pink soldier turns to him again, hands on his hips. “And, if he felt like he could talk about it with you, maybe he’d feel more like one of the guys.”

“Umm.” His nose wrinkles at the thought. He and DuFresne weren’t especially close. They were more… run-with-the-same-crowd type friends. Not, let’s-trade-kinky-sex-tips friends; that was more of a Donut and Tucker thing. 

Tossing his towel over a shoulder, Grif shrugs, face very warm. “Only if he came to me, man. I am not bringing that up with him.” Turning to leave, he hesitates, grimacing. Holding up a single finger, he rounds back. “And you owe me.”

Smooth as you please, Donut winds the offending finger down, stepping to Grif’s side and hooking his arm around so they’re now linked at the elbow. Smiling toothily, he smells like strawberries, and he looks like a gay angel. “Done. You’re the _be-est_!” he sings.

“Yeah, I know.”


End file.
